


Silken Roses

by Just_A_Simple_Writer



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Montparnasse is Soft, Other, Roses, Snow, T rated for one (1) somewhat inappropriate joke, is it canon-compliant? maybe!, they/them pronouns for jehan, this is mostly just soft gay nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28568721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Just_A_Simple_Writer/pseuds/Just_A_Simple_Writer
Summary: Perhaps the snow is the reason they spot the rose on the side of the road. It certainly stands out, stark red against white, and they can’t help but pick it up, curious. Roses are not in season.It isn’t real. It’s made of silk, the material already soaked from the snow.
Relationships: Montparnasse/Jean Prouvaire
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7





	Silken Roses

**Author's Note:**

> i just think there should be more soft fics with these two

Winter in Paris is harsh, biting wind and freezing rain. Even the birds don’t sing at this time of year, hidden away under the eaves of the houses.

Jehan would far rather be hidden away now, too, but such a mundane a thing as snow does not stop the Amis from meeting, and they would rather brave the elements than Enjolras’ wrath should they not attend, so here they are, struggling against the wind which is trying to rip their scarf from around their neck.

They are not exactly dressed for the weather. Their shirt (a green that had been, in the past, described as ‘sickly’) is far too thin, their coat more for show than warmth, and in their haste to get out this morning they had neglected a vest. The only piece of clothing suitable for the cold is their scarf, and the wind seems insistent upon taking it from them.

All in all they are not enjoying this walk. The snow is falling fast, a thick layer of it already covering the streets, and it makes walking difficult.

Perhaps the snow is the reason they spot the rose on the side of the road. It certainly stands out, stark red against white, and they can’t help but pick it up, curious. Roses are not in season.

It isn’t real. It’s made of silk, the material already soaked from the snow.

Who could have dropped it here? Jehan slips it into their pocket, looking around, but there’s no sign of anyone.

There is, however, a second silk rose laying a few meters away. Then another, beyond that, and another. A trail of roses.

Perhaps they have been left here intentionally. The thought sends a little thrill down Jehan’s back. There is only one man whom they know who would do something like this.

They start walking, Enjolras forgotten. Let him be angry; they have more important things to worry about.

There are seventeen roses in their pockets by the time they find the man responsible. He’s leaning against a wall as though the cold doesn’t bother him, and the eighteenth rose is tucked into his buttonhole.

He looks up as Jehan approaches, smile widening. He looks rather like a cat which has got the cream.

“Monsieur Prouvaire,” he says, and then, more softly: “Jehan.”

“Montparnasse,” they reply, casting a cursory glance around the street before they step forward, into the warmth of Montparnasse’s arms. “It is good to see you.”

He laughs, a soft rumble against their chest. “Did you enjoy my roses?”

“Of course,” they say. They know better than to ask where the roses came from. “You knew I would.”

“I did,” he admits, stepping back and cupping their cheeks. “You’re cold, little bird.”

“It’s snowing.”

“And you’re barely dressed. Here.” He shrugs off his long, thick coat and wraps it around Jehan’s shoulders before they can protest. “You should be warmer, now. And it covers up that horrible shirt of yours. Why do you always insist upon wearing it?”

“It’s a lovely shirt,” they say, without venom. They’re so much warmer now, and if leaving the house underdressed means that they get to wear Montparnasse’s precious clothes then they’ll do it every day.

“Don’t get too used to this,” he says gruffly, when he notices them snuggling into the fur-lined collar of the coat. “Just wear you own clothes next time.”

“You hate my clothes.”

“Indeed; I much prefer you out of them.”

Jehan squeaks, feeling their cheeks heat. “Don’t! I have delicate sensibilities.”

Montparnasse laughs warmly, pulling them closer. “Your sensibilities are far from delicate.”

“Perhaps,” Jehan says, and leans down to kiss him before he can reply.

They kiss, and they kiss, and then Jehan abruptly remembers he has somewhere to be.

It’s with some reluctance they pull away, pushing Montparnasse back so he can’t chase their lips.

“I have to go,” they say, breathless, and Montparnasse purses his lips.

“Are you certain?”

“Very certain. Unless _you_ would like to be the one to explain to Enjolras why I missed his precious meeting?”

“I’ll pass,” Montparnasse tells them, and leans in to steal another kiss. “Keep the coat until I next see you. It would be an awful shame if you were to freeze to death in the street on your way home.”

Jehan giggles. “Thank you. You are far softer than people say you are, you know.”

Montparnasse huffs, and Jehan imagines his cheeks go a little redder. “Don’t thank me. My motivations are nothing but selfish.”

“Are you sure?” Jehan teases. “You’re not just being kind for kindness’ sake?”

His cheeks are definitely red now. “Certainly not.”

Jehan smiles. “Of course not. I hope to see you again soon.”

“And I you,” he tells them, kissing them one final time. “Farewell, little bird.”

“Goodbye!” Jehan calls, and takes their leave before their self-control crumbles and they run back to Montparnasse. They glance back just once, and find him smiling softly at nothing.

Perhaps winter is not so harsh.

(They are forty-five minutes late to the meeting, and their excuse that the snow made it difficult to walk is all but ignored. Enjolras is not happy.)

**Author's Note:**

> i like to imagine the conversation went something like:  
> jehan: sorry im late! the snow is really heavy  
> grantaire: huh, weird. did the snow also give you a new coat and a hickey
> 
> i have a [tumblr!](https://jaysworlds.tumblr.com/)


End file.
